


Little Mate

by Livia_LeRynn



Series: Rolling Stones Turn to Sand (if They Don't Find a Place to Stand) [7]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Domesticity, F/F, Intersex Character, Motherhood, Post-Movie(s), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7664533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't remember her birth name.  She's been named and renamed more times than she can count.  The Dag is the one that stuck.  No wonder she can't think of a name for baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Mate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lesbianpraetor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lesbianpraetor).



> Fic giveaway prize for lesbianpraetor

She doesn't remember her birth name. She's been named and renamed more times than she can count. The Dag is the one that stuck. When she told it to the Mothers, they struck their thighs and backs with good-natured laughter. 

“The Dag cut the shit from the sheep’s bums,” The Seed Keeper had announced, “and never complained – only made jokes. Only your best mate would clean up your sheep for you. Gotta cut off the shit before you can make sweaters from the wool. The Dag laughed through the stink and the heat and the muck, made a pleasant time from a shitty job.”

The girl can think of no better way to respond to such a task, though she isn’t really sure she understands it. Miss Giddy had always explained it similarly but without all the profanity the Vuvalini so gleefully spewed. She had made it sound so positive, so boring. 

The Dag has never seen a sheep, let alone smelled one. She doesn’t think she's missed out on much. She always thought they looked rather ridiculous in Miss Giddy’s picture books, dopey eyes, fat bodies drawn like clouds. She always wondered why she had to learn about them and couldn’t be reading adventure stories instead – it wasn’t like there would ever be sheep again. They weren't any more realistic than the flying cars and light guns of far better stories.

In her own way, she’s the last of her kind. Even if she doesn’t really understand dags or sheep, she likes she name. Even though Joe gave it to her, it's hers, unlike anything else in the world. Not even the baby - it's just a squatter, doesn’t even do work. But if she’s the last of her kind, the baby is the first of its own. 

No wonder she can't think of a name for her baby. She’s thought about it for months – thought about names while she tended the gardens and coaxed blackness into the soil. She thought about it while she wrapped the potato harvest in soft cloth for storage. She tried not to think about it while Cheedo explored her swelling thighs and breasts. She thought about it while she stayed awake at night and Cheedo slept beside her. She tried to think about it while the child forced its way out between her thighs, and she roared like Furiosa digging for her last ounce of strength. Now she can think of nothing but how her child has no name as it sucks at her breast and fills its belly. 

Still she has nothing but her name. She would never says that she “has” Cheedo. The baby has her more than the other way around. She does the work while the baby reaps the benefits. Then there’s the garden; she calls it hers, but it’s something else entirely. Sometimes she wonders how the garden feels about being tended, if it mourns the plants she reaps.

She likes to walk through the garden soil. She likes how it feels to press the balls of her feet into the newly watered mud so it squishes between her toes. Baby's too young to notice how even the air smells different up here, too young to care for the magic of smelling rich soil while staring out across the endless dust. The Mothers seem to think the dust will have an end, that when men and women make their peace, the Earth will open up her bounty again. She rather likes things the way they are. Her little speak of green in all the beige wouldn't be nearly so special otherwise. 

The Dag stops by her farms and holds the baby up to the glass while she talks about the grubs and then ants in turn. She's fairly certain the baby's eyes don't focus quite right yet, but there's still sound and smell and touch. She takes out a grub and lets it crawl along her finger. Its body contorts like a toppled rig as its stubby little legs nudge it's fat body along.

"Witchetty Grub," She holds it close so Baby can smell the brown trail it leaves behind. "And grub grease." 

Baby says nothing of course. The Dag thanks the grub by placing some branches cut from the garden in the tank. She'll come back later to collect some of the fattest grubs for dinner. She reminds herself to ask the Mothers more about them. They were surprised to learn that she'd found some munching away at Giddy's bookshelf; they'd thought the grubs had gone extinct. These may very well be the last of their kind... and the first... Giddy's books say nothing ever becomes domesticated except out of necessity. 

She let that fact slip once after Furiosa’s pet feral left. Toast elbowed her in the arm over it when she saw Furiosa’s face darken. It seemed like an overreaction. She would rather be wild than domesticated any day. She realised later that Furiosa probably felt the same way. The baby came before she built up the will to explain herself. 

The Vuvalini had been quite excited to release this baby upon the world. The one called Iris called it a “Messenger” instead of stating the sex and proclaimed the birth a good omen.

The Dag isn't so sure. She wouldn't refuse a good omen, but she kinda figures that she's already used up her share of miracles…her garden, her witchetty grubs, her sisters, her life, her Cheedo… Besides, that's an awful lot of pressure for one soft, little head. 

She heads back to her room she shares with Cheedo and finds her partner deep into speech writing with Furiosa. Cheedo, pouring herself over a chalkboard barely notices her arrival. White smudges mar the tanned skin on her hands.

Furiosa, however bristles and folds her arms across her chest. "Do we really have to use ‘hope’ again? I hate repeating myself.”

“It's for emphasis,” says Cheedo. 

The Dag lingers in her own doorway. It's nice to see Cheedo so happy at work. Even as she twists her face in concentration, she's clearly enjoying the effort. She always waits just inside the shadows when Furiosa gives her nightly watering speeches. She always clenches her fists as the tension builds, and her eyes moisten at the emotional moments. She believes every word she writes. 

Furiosa stands and folds her chair. "Let's take a break.” She leans it against the wall and cuts a path past The Dag and Baby.

“I don't think she likes me,” says The Dag as soon as Furiosa is out of earshot.

“We were just... She didn't mean to take it out on you.” Cheedo kisses her cheek and then the baby’s. “She's frustrated; that's all.” 

The Dag isn't so sure. She thinks aloud as she unties her baby from her chest, “It doesn't really matter. I don't need her to like me or anything. I just always say the wrong things, and… I'm just meshuggeneh.”

“Trust me, it's not about you…”

The Dag sets her baby on the bed beside her and leans back into Cheedo's lap. “I thought I was the only one allowed to tell you secrets.”

“She hasn't told me anything. She wouldn't need a speech writer if she were any good at opening up. I just put the pieces together. That's my job.”

“So what do you reckon?”

“I don't want to say. It's just speculation.”

The Dag pinches her mouth shut as she combs her fingers through Cheedo’s black hair. She then separates three strands and begins to plait them. Over, under, over, under… she tries to lose herself in the rhythm. As her hands work, a single, nagging thought returns to her mind: her baby still doesn't have a name.

She watches the baby with an inquisitive expression on her face. She’s never understood the appeal of such things. Cheedo is so good with the pups, but The Dag, she is better suited to adults, and even then, not so much. She doesn't think she's suited to anyone really, except Cheedo.

The baby stirs. Round, blue eyes open and peer out from the round, bald head, then close again. She'd hoped the eyes wouldn't be blue. She'd hoped they would be any other color. 

Cheedo must have noticed her pensive expression. “Stop worrying about Furiosa.”

“No, that's not it. I’ve moved on from that.”

“So now what?”

The Dag shrugged. “It's stupid really. I had just hoped Baby’s eyes would have been some other color.”

"Lots of babies are born with blue eyes; they don't all stay blue," says Cheedo. "At least that's what the book says."

The Dag scoffs, "The books also says if his eyes are blue and my eyes are blue, the baby's eyes will be blue."

"Those are your eyes; I'd know them anywhere. What a beautiful baby,” Cheedo coos, more to The Dag then to the baby who nods back into a nap.

“Looks more like a lizard to me.” The Dag shifts her weight so she's on her back now. She tilts her head back so she's looking at Cheedo.

‘A beautiful little lizard baby,” Cheedo agrees. She leans over The Dag's shoulder, peers closer, her own nose barely hovering about the baby’s. She knows better than to ask about the name. Instead she eases The Dag’s head into her lap. “You did good.” She smiles as she slips a strand of pale hair behind her partner’s ear. 

“I’m not done yet – baby needs a name.” She fiddles with the skin of her belly. She’s kind of glad it hasn’t shrunk as quickly as she thought it would – her belly is much less fun when it's flat. “If it had a really been a girl…”she’s embarrassed to say the name she's been turning over in her mind.

“Go on,” Cheedo coaxes. 

But really the current one wasn't the only such name. She’d never reached any decision point. Giddy, Keeper, Furiosa, Angharad, Cheedo... So many women she blushes to think would ever find her worthy to co-opt their names. “But the baby’s not a girl.”

“So?” Askes Cheedo as she takes The Dag’s hand. Both hands now slide over her belly, studying it for softening, running fingers over the red lines left where it had been too small to contain the life within it.

“What do you name a baby that's not a girl and not a boy?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What if I want you to do it?”

Cheedo looks again at the sleeping infant, swaddled the way the Vuvalini taught them. “That is the Vuvalini way.” 

“I thought the Vuvalini way was also to wait until after the first winter.”

Cheedo is quiet, probably trying to measure the time until winter is over. Of course, winter is still a mostly abstract concept for both of them. Days get shorter and cooler is about all they understand of it. The Dag is starting to notice the garden resting just like the Mothers said it would. She's learning to tell when the potatoes are ready for eating.

Cheedo looks from the baby to the reluctant mother and back again, maybe looking for similarities, maybe just musing about the “miracle of birth,” or some other nonsense from the books. “Strange creature this baby,” she says.

‘Right, fucking weird if you ask me,” The Dag remarks, but then her demeanor softens, “not that weird is bad.”

The baby is weird all right, weird how the baby’s sight and sounds sent the feral scurrying back to the sand dunes like a frightened lizard…weird how Furiosa can't look at her when she holds the baby to her breast, and Cheedo holds both of them…weird how the smell of the baby’s head makes The Dag feel both soft and strong at once. This powerful creature could even stir a smile from Toast. And Cheedo… good thing Cheedo isn't fragile anymore; one mother wouldn't be enough for this weird, powerful baby.

The Dag rolls to her side so her baby fits in the small of her back and she fits at Cheedo's front. Cheedo aligns herself beside her, and The Dag props herself up on her elbow to get a better view. She begins to absentmindedly trace the newly formed freckles on Cheedo’s shoulders. They'd come out in the light the same way stars would come out in the dark. She connects them like constellations. There is the Southern cross where her collar bone started to dip. She lets her fingers glide down the bone to the hollow at the base of her neck.

“Maybe chew on the name for awhile, while Baby sleeps,” she mumbles before tracing her fingers’ paths with her lips.

Cheedo cocks her head. “Are you ready yet?”

“No,” she laughed, “but I don't have to be. And…” she scotches up and arcs her back, “You might as well take advantage of these big ol’ jugs while they last.” She gives her chest a little shake, letting her flesh dance as Cheedo tries to stifle her giggles.

The Dag sees an opportunity to be helpful, and their mouths meet. The kiss is slow and familiar.

The Dag turns to check on the baby. Round, blue eyes open. “Busted.”

“Ah, hello there, little mate. A bit protective of your food source I see.” Cheedo giggles as she nuzzles The Dag's neck. "She was mine first."

The moist mouth on her neck sets her spine a tingle. Cheedo's done this many times before, but it's always a surprise. Her damp mouth is like an oasis in the sand, like a magic thing that's been waiting beneath the dunes.

Do you believe in magic?" The Dag muses. She thinks she might, at least as much as she believes in anything else...miracles, omens, magic...one is as good as the next. 

"What do you mean? Do you?"

"Sure, why not?"

Cheedo's expression is soft and contemplative, like when she's pouring over a new book. In those moments, her eyes jump from word to word in a rush to uncover the mysteries of the story, but then, as she's about to turn the page, she turns back. In a way, a page turned can never be unturned. Books can be read again, but it's never quite the same. This is how The Dag can be certain that Cheedo knows magic.

"What brought this on?"

"What brings anything on?" 

Her thoughts shift, stack and tumble like dunes in the wind. Cheedo is focused. Cheedo is practical. Even Cheedo's doubts are the doubts of a smart woman, one who can feels the wind and see the mountains and predict how the dunes will form. But for The Dag it's all magic, and she looks at her baby, she thinks the baby must feel the same way: magic drags babies into the world. Magic draws milk from breasts. Magic creates the subtle ba-dum, ba-dum of mothers' heartbeats that link the inside and outside worlds. She knows the science of how such things work; for her, those pages have already been turned. But there's still mystery in the world, like the glint in Cheedo's eyes she catches when she turns to face her. 

"I have an idea...for the name," Cheedo whispers. "No need to decide now, but if I don't say it, I'll forget." 

"OK."

"Orlando."

"Is that a boy's name or a girl's name?"

"Both. Don't you remember? Miss Giddy had us read that book."

Dag wrinkles her nose. "The one that didn't make any sense?"

"I prefer to think of it as magic. You asked if I believed in magic."

The Dag tries the name as she watches her baby for a reaction. "Orlando... Worlando... Worly, Borly, Gorly."

Cheedo giggles instead. "I'll ask Furiosa next time she comes by."

"You think she'd really care?"

"No, but I thinks she's be glad to be included in the process. It would be the Vuvalini way after all." Cheedo's expression is one of self-satisfaction as she leans close to the baby again. "What do you think little mate?"

**Author's Note:**

> Cheedo is thinking of the book "Orlando" by Virginia Woolf, where the protagonist lives for multiple centuries and spends the first half of the book as a man and the second half as a woman. The name is also a nod to "Orlando Furioso," a European Renaissance epic poem.
> 
> Vuvalini babies are traditionally named on Imbolc, which occurs in early August in the Southern Hemisphere. All babies born the previous year are formally named on this day, but families often begin using personal names earlier. Baby names are typically selected by the women of the community other than the birth mother, who is thought to be too close to the baby to be able to make an objective decision. If multiple names are under consideration, the final choice is ceremonially given to the baby; all names under consideration are listed in a repeated sequence until the baby gives some sort of indication of preference such as a coo, smile, etc. depending on the baby's age.


End file.
